History, Moving Quickly
by Polly Lynn
Summary: "He knows she's there, and there's not an instant's hesitation—not ever—before he pulls her to him and folds himself around her and she doesn't know why she doesn't just go to him right away." A TARDIS-verse one-shot set just after Target ( 5 x 15) and Hunt (5 x 16), reference to The Final Nail (3 x 15).


Title: History, Moving Quickly

WC: ~5400

Summary: "He knows she's there, and there's not an instant's hesitation—not ever—before he pulls her to him and folds himself around her and she doesn't know why she doesn't just go to him right away."

Spoilers: A TARDIS-verse one-shot set just after Target ( 5 x 15) and Hunt (5 x 16), reference to The Final Nail (3 x 15).

A/N: Thanks, Brain, for totally jumping the queue here. I have the next part of Bodies at Rest going and a sequel to Going Under and another Material Witness, but sure, barge in with a TARDIS-verse story at 1 AM. Whatevs.

* * *

It's her feet that wake her. Her toes, really. They're freezing. Usually, that wouldn't be enough to wake her. Not completely. Usually he's there and she twines her feet around his calves and he'll start awake, just for a second or two.

Some nights his head pops from the pillow and he glares and mumbles _Jesus, Kate_. _Jesus, Kate_, and her hand will smooth over his shoulder and they'll both drop off again.

Some nights he murmurs _Kate . . . you're here, _and it's surprised and contented and he struggles against sleep like he's afraid he'll miss it. He'll miss her.

Those nights she presses close and curves herself against him, even though it's not really her. She doesn't think of herself that way, but she nudges her way under his arm. She wriggles and tucks his knees into the crook of her own.

Those nights, she waits for the kiss he always drops in the same spot—the exact middle of the top of her shoulder blade. She waits for him to say it again: _You're here. _And they both drop off again.

And some nights—more nights lately—he's gone. He's gone and she's pulled all the way up and out of sleep.

She waits those nights, or tries to. Flat on her back and eyes on the ceiling she tries to wait, though she doesn't know why. She doesn't really have an explanation for why she doesn't just get up and go to him right away.

It winds up the same, more often than not. She gives in and finds him. In the office. Standing at the living room window. Perched on the edge of Alexis's bed. She finds him staring at nothing, doing nothing, and he knows she's there before she touches his shoulder or skims her fingers down his neck. He knows she's there, and there's not an instant's hesitation—not ever—before he pulls her to him and folds himself around her and she doesn't know why she doesn't just go to him right away.

They talk some nights. Not about much. It's never heavy or deep. Nothing earth shaking, but some nights they talk awhile before they trail back to bed together.

And some nights he just holds her. He just closes his eyes and presses his face into her neck for a few heartbeats and they're quiet together for a while.

Some nights she does wait. Some nights she makes it until he comes back to bed on his own ,and she doesn't even pretend like she's been asleep. He reaches for her and she reaches for him, so she doesn't know why she doesn't just go to him in the first place.

Tonight, he's gone. He's _gone_ gone, though she doesn't know at first how it is that she knows. She doesn't wait. Her feet swing to the floor and she hisses as the chill air of the loft creeps over her skin and she reaches for the shirt that isn't there.

The button-down shirt he tossed aside a few hours ago is gone and that seals it for her. He's _gone_ gone.

She gropes in the darkness. Groggy and chilled and more than a little worried. She can't remember what she was wearing. She can't find anything in the inky black and it's not helping the uneasy buzz of her stomach.

She twitches the chain of the bedside lamp and winces. She's awake, but she's not, and even the soft glow is startling. She makes her way around to his side of the bed and the pile is there. Her leggings and a sweatshirt. Nothing of his but a single sock and his phone and wallet aren't on the bedside table.

She pulls on her leggings and shoves herself into the sweatshirt. She stumbles for the bedroom door, then stumbles back for her own phone. The screen is dark and there's nothing waiting when she taps the button.

Her heart drops a little further and she wonders where she's going. Where he could have gone. She wonders, but she won't let her feet stop moving. She's halfway through the living room when she hears her name.

* * *

"Kate!" Martha's voice is a tone or two lower than usual and it's missing some of its brightness. It hits Kate square between the shoulder blades. The loss of it. That sparkle and ease and she's surprised. She's surprised that she—that his mother—is enough a part of her own life that she's come to count on that brightness. That she feels the loss of it.

"Martha?" She finds herself changing course. Veering away from the door and dropping to the edge of the couch opposite her

"What on earth are you doing up?" Martha pulls her silk robe closer around her.

Kate looks down at herself. Her leggings bag around the knees and the cuff of the sweatshirt—one of his that she's more or less commandeered—is frayed and drooping, so she supposes it's obvious she didn't catch a body. She's not exactly dressed for work. She's not exactly dressed for anything sensible.

"Castle . . ." She trails off, suddenly wondering if it sounds odd to her. She corrects herself. "Rick isn't . . . he isn't upstairs, is he?"

"No, dear. Tonight was my night in the rotation." Martha chuckles and reaches for a mug on the end table. She see's Kate's confused look and gestures toward the stairs. "Alexis's room. I couldn't sleep, so I sat in there for a while. Still couldn't sleep and here I am, taking the cure." She hefts her mug and takes a sip. "Chamomile. And the slug of bourbon doesn't hurt."

"Oh." Kate studies her own hands, at a loss. She hasn't . . . the two of them had weathered it together. Not knowing. Not believing they were safe and coming home even after they'd called from the consulate. She'd been surprised to find Martha so steady and low key and dependable. They'd weathered it together and since then . . .

"We've both been preoccupied, dear." Martha fills the silence and it's a kindness.

Kate's head snaps up in surprise, but she supposes it's obvious. She supposes guilt and the awkward moment are visible in the color creeping into her cheeks.

"How are you?" she blurts and the blush deepens. "How are you doing, Martha? I should have asked before."

She shrugs and waves it off, a rustle of hot pink silk softening the gesture. "I'm settling back down. I missed her before all this and now . . ."

"He does, too," Kate hears herself saying. "I think he forgets that he missed her before . . . that he would have been missing her anyway, and . . ."

Martha holds her gaze and nods. She nods like something pleases her and a little of the buzz settles in Kate's stomach, though she doesn't know why.

"He's my son," she says after a moment. She jerks her chin up and the firelight catches her in profile and the resemblance strikes Kate all of a sudden. The slope of his nose and the stubborn crease between his eyebrows. So much of him is there, flickering with shadows. "Dramatic mood swings are to be expected."

Kate doesn't quite laugh, but her smile is real enough. "He went a little overboard at first?"

It's a question. After the first night back—a long night of not-entirely-healthy coping mechanisms on both sides—she'd backed off a little. Thought she'd give them their space. His family. But Martha is surprised now. Surprised and a little unsure.

"He went overboard," she confirms, but her tone is guarded.

All of a sudden Kate sees how it looks. How it must have looked even though she though they were fine. She thought he'd know that she was just trying not to be underfoot when Alexis needed him and he needed Alexis. She was just trying not to intrude and she thought they were fine.

She thinks they _are _fine. _Now_ they are, but maybe they weren't and she missed it. Maybe she let him fall and he picked himself back up again. Maybe that's why they're fine now and they weren't before and she missed it.

"He doesn't usually leave," Kate says. She hears it. Hears how it sounds on the way out of her mouth—needy and heavier than she meant it—and she follows it with a helpless gesture. "Some nights he has trouble sleeping, but . . ."

"But he doesn't usually go out," Martha finishes for her with a sympathetic smile. "I hear him wandering some nights. And from time to time we get our signals crossed about whose turn it is to brood in Alexis's room."

"Does he talk to you?" she asks quickly before she can lose her nerve. "About . . . Paris."

"Not since that first night. Not since he told me. . . . Not since we talked about his father." She shakes her head and sighs into her mug. "You?"

_No_. It's what she's about to say, but she realizes it's not quite true.

"Not exactly," she says slowly. "He'll describe things to me. All these details. Characters

and atmosphere and the house where . . . where they kept her. He knows every turn. Exactly how they got out of the house. How many doors and steps and how the alley smelled. Like he's writing a scene."

"He might be. It's how he copes."

Kate's eyes drop. She wants to hold on to that. The idea that he's coping. The idea that he's ok, even if he doesn't talk about it, but she needs to be better than that. They all need her to be better than that.

Her voice is low and she can't tear her gaze away from the complicated twist of her fingers around the hem of the sweatshirt. "He doesn't . . . I'm not sure he's dealing with it. I'm not sure he _is_ coping."

Martha meets her eyes and Kate sees her make some kind of decision. Like she was about to say something comforting—something meaningless or some kind of mercy fit for the middle of the night—and she's decided against it.

"I'm not sure he is either," the older woman says finally.

A strange, warm weight settles over Kate, and the last of her worry breaks apart and the knots float away. The buzzing in her stomach calms and she names it: _Trust._ This woman—his mother—trusts her with him and it's a strange, warm weight that she's happy to have.

"I should go after him," Kate says and there's a question underneath. A childish uncertainty she hates.

"I think," Martha begins and trails off. She meets Kate's eyes again and there's another decision made. "I think he would welcome it, but he wouldn't expect it."

That's a weight, too. _Honesty. _She shoulders it, and she's grateful though it's not such a happy one. It's one that comes with the chill of realization and pushes her to her feet.

Martha stays her with a gesture, though. She blunts the edge of it with a smile and something more that she meant to say. Kate sinks back on to the couch and waits.

"He's a strong man, Kate. And he's used to doing it alone. Especially when it comes to Alexis. I'm guessing he hasn't asked . . ."

"He shouldn't have to, should he?" She scrubs weary hands over her face.

"Maybe not," she says firmly. "But he'd do well to learn how."

Kate wants to say something, but the words won't come. Gratitude. Concern. A plea for advice. Any clue how to do this. It's all there, but the words won't come and she needs to go all of a sudden. It's the best thing. The best way to say all that is to go after him and make good on all of it. She leans forward and palms her phone off the edge of the coffee table.

"You know where he'd go," Martha says and there's a question of her own in it.

Kate is on her feet. She turns. Toward the front door. Toward the bedroom. She looks helplessly at her phone and all the worry buzzes back up again.

She doesn't know. She _doesn't _and she ought to._ She doesn't. _The words start to spin up in her mind and then a single image comes. A green crayon in his hand. Tapping the corner of her desk in an absent pattern. Something he yanked back with a self-conscious smile and slipped into his pocket when she snatched at it. A green crayon from a kids' menu.

"I know where he'd go," she says.

* * *

She smiles and Martha smiles back.

She's sure and it carries her down the stairs and through the lobby. It carries her past Eduardo with nothing more than a wave. She's sure. She doesn't need to ask which way he went or how long ago. She's sure.

It's not far and it's not that cold. Spring is finally making its way through the city, but she's shivering and her toes are icy and she wants him back in bed with her.

_This first, though, _she thinks, and pleasure bubbles up in her, unexpected and welcome. It fills every space and pushes out the last of the worry. She's sure of where he is and it's a good place. Good for them more than once. She's hungry all of a sudden and that's good, too. She wants to slap his hand away when he tries to steal her bacon and sift through the pile of hash for the green peppers he loves and she doesn't.

She's sure. It carries her around the last corner and before she even thinks about it—about how she'll do this—she's peering in the window. Her eyes find it. Their table and it's empty. The breath rushes out of her and she has to steady herself with a heavy hand against the brick. It's cold and rough and unkind under her palm and she was sure. She was _so _sure.

The broad back of the waitress fills the aisle and Kate's eyes follow. _Linda—_their waitress—and the fact that she's there and Castle isn't makes the loss that much sharper.

She was so sure, but Linda moves right by their table like it doesn't mean anything. Like she hasn't watched the two of them tugging heaping plates back and forth. Like she hasn't laughed at Castle's dumb jokes against her better judgment and wondered about the two of them and why they keep winding up at one of her tables in the middle of the night.

She moves right by their table and pauses a few booths down. She leans down to tip coffee into a mug and Kate sees her shoulders stiffen and relax. Sees her head shake and the corner of a reluctant smile.

It wells back up in her again. Sureness. Certainty. She waits for Linda to move on. To step out of her line of sight, but she doesn't really need her to. She doesn't even need to see it. The dark blue right angle of his shoulder and the peculiar way he wraps his hand around the mug. It's him. He's not at their table, but it's him.

She takes two steps toward the door and stops. He's not at their table.

It's not a coincidence. She doesn't know what it means, but it's not a coincidence. He's not at their table.

_Their table. _It means something to him and it's how he is. Sentimental and superstitious and insistent on his little rituals. It's how he is and she rolls her eyes, but she loves it. She loves the world he holds for them in his memory.

It means something and he would have waited for it. Leaned on the counter and lingered and Linda would have taken pity on him. That would've been against her better judgment, too, but she would have. She wouldn't have rushed a table. She's not that sentimental and she's too hard to be entirely happy that Castle gets to her. But he does, and a nudge here and there. . . . She would have taken pity on him.

But he's not at their table and Kate turns away from the door. She takes the two steps back again and stops, hands hanging at her sides. She thinks she should go. Back to the loft. Or her place, maybe. Her place. _Home, _she supposes, but the fact that she wonders stops her again.

She sees the years on Martha's face. Softened by firelight and the fact that she's _Martha_ and the world sees what she wants it to see, but even still. Tonight there were years there. Years and worry and _trust_.

She sees him. The last time her toes woke her and she went hunting for him. Three days ago? More? She sees his face in shadow. Slack and empty and tired. She sees it, and she knows she's not going anywhere.

Her fingers want to curl into tight fists and she remembers her phone. _Her phone. _

She takes a shaky breath and unlocks it. Taps out the letters and hesitates just a second. _Just a second. _

_Time Out?_

* * *

It's instant. His hand goes for his inside pocket. It goes for his phone, but he's already turning when he fumbles it out and glances down at the text. He's already turning and his eyes find her through the window.

She feels like an idiot. Baggy clothes and practically pressed up against the plate glass. She feels like an idiot, but his eyes find her and he smiles.

He's tired. He means the smile, but it's work to pull the corners of his mouth up and the lines are deep around his eyes. He's tired and she doesn't know how she hasn't seen it before. How she's let it go on like this and not done something about it.

But he means the smile and her free hand comes up in a tiny wave and it widens. His smile widens and he looks more like himself. She stands there. She's frozen with relief and she stands there drinking it in.

He raises his eyebrows at her. Tips his head toward the door and she can practically hear his voice. _Well? _Well_, Beckett?_

She feels the corners of her own mouth turning up and she heads for the door. She's fighting the wind—a warm, sudden squall churning down the street—when her phone buzzes. _Time Out! _

She grins and puts her shoulder into it.

He's on his feet. Coffee cup in one hand and plate in the other, he's on his feet and shooing her back down the aisle when she goes to meet him. Shooing her toward their table. _Their table. _

She looks toward the counter and Linda is shaking her head as she grabs new sets of rolled silverware and a couple of paper placements. Shaking her head and looking down to hide a smile.

Castle sets down his plate and mug and catches her fingers. He's crowding her into the booth and they're clumsy and shy with each other all of a sudden. Kate's head snaps up and she realizes she doesn't know what to say, so she kisses him. She kisses him once and murmurs that she missed him.

"Sorry," he murmurs back and holds on to her a second longer. "Sorry, Kate. I . . ." He doesn't know what to say, either, and he kisses her back.

Her free hand finds his cheek and her fingers curl around his ear. The warmth coming off him snakes its way through her. She wants him in bed with her. She feels his breath catch. His pulse jumps against the heel of her hand and she knows he wants it, too, but this first. _This first. _

She gives his fingers a squeeze and steps back and it hurts. It physically _hurts _to lose the contact. The warmth. But she slides into her side of the booth and smiles up at him.

"Feed me, Castle," she says quietly and he smiles back.

* * *

She misses it at first. The notebook. He's pushed it aside and set his crumpled napkin next to it and she wonders if he means her to. If he doesn't want to talk about it and what she should do with that.

_Ask. _

It's Martha's voice in her head and that's a little alarming. She gives a startled laugh and he looks up at her in surprise.

_Ask_. It's pretty simple and he doesn't have to answer. He can or he can't. He will or he won't, and then she can decide what to do with that. She can push or not and he can just show her what he needs and it's pretty simple.

"Were you writing?" She reaches out and taps the notebook with a finger.

"No. Not really. Just . . . no." His hand moves to cover it. To hide it and she knows he didn't want her to ask.

She pulls her own hand back. Tucks her hair behind her ear and focuses on her plate. On the forkful of food that means she doesn't have to talk. She sets it down. Something makes her set it down and she looks at him.

"Does it help?"

He raises an eyebrow. Like he doesn't understand. Like he doesn't know what she's asking, but it's an act. It's an act, and she's not letting this go right now.

"Writing," she says and picks up the fork again. Gives him a second while she savors a mouthful and goes on when he doesn't say anything. "Not writing. Does it help?"

"I'm ok," he says, but his hand snakes out for a piece of bacon and she sees it for what it is: A distraction. He's lying.

She swats his hand away and a small sigh slips out of him. He's relieved. He thinks it worked. But she's not letting it go.

She breaks off a small piece and hands it to him. His face falls. It startles him. He takes it but it startles him and he's staring down at the table. He expected her to let it go and there's no use pretending that doesn't hurt.

"You don't seem ok." She waits for him to look at her. Goes on again when he doesn't. "You don't have to be ok."

"I'm . . . annoyed." He's looking at her now and they both blink. Neither of them seems to have been expecting that.

The thought flicks through her mind that Martha is right. He could learn to ask. Maybe he doesn't expect it and that's on her. But he could learn to ask, too. She pushes the plate aside. Both of them.

"He told me he was proud of me." His voice is so low that she barely catches the words.

She barely catches them and doesn't exactly know what to do with them when she does. She thought this was about Alexis and it is. It is, but she's been . . . oh, she's been stupid.

She thinks about the story he told to Martha. The story he told for Alexis. How simple he made it for them. A hero. A shadowy, dashing figure who gave them up. Gave them up for all these years to keep them safe and risked his life when that failed. The self-sacrificing hero who saved them all.

She's been so stupid.

She should recognize his stories by now. She's read dozens of them. Reread and heard a hundred more over the years. She should know one when she hears one, but the rough edges fooled her. The rough edges and the real emotion underneath, but she still should have known. She's still been so stupid.

"You're surprised?" It's dumb. It's stupid. But he's not saying anything and it's something. "It can't . . . Castle, it shouldn't surprise you that he'd be proud."

"I'm not surprised," he snaps and she feels firmer ground under he feet. That's probably more than a little fucked up, but it's angry—a little angry—and she knows how to deal with that.

"Ok." She draws the syllables out a little. Exaggerated patience that she knows will annoy him. That's messed up, to, but it will keep him talking. "You're annoyed."

"Why should I care whether he's fucking proud of me or not?" He grabs his coffee and hides the twist of his mouth behind it.

Tries to hide it, but she doesn't need to see to know. The weight of that settles in her chest next to the gifts Martha gave her. _Trust. Honesty._ The truth of it settles in her chest. She can know him if she lets herself.

She does now. She lets herself know.

He's angry, but that's not all of it. That's not even most of it. He's . . . moved. He cares and it means something to him and he doesn't want it to and she has a sharp, sudden sense of loss.

She hears his voice in her head. _Without him, I'm not me_. She hears the pause before his own name. She hears the pause, thick with tears and remembers how it pulled her up short then. As angry as she was. As frustrated as she was with him, it shocked her. The pause before his own name and the praise he needed. The praise he could hardly bear to repeat. _Ricky, you have a great talent. _

She can't remember how long it's been since then. Two years? Is that all? Just two years and he's taught himself not to want that. To not need that from anyone. To not expect it.

"You don't have to care," she says quietly. It's not just to say something. It's not just because there's a sudden hush from him. She's working it out. "But you don't have to . . . not care either?"

She looks up at him, unhappy with it. She hates it. Hates being clumsy with words around him, but it feels important.

"It's ok for it to mean something." She hates that, too, even though it feels closer. It's closer to what she means. What she wants him to understand.

"I . . ." He looks at her and it's helpless. It breaks her heart even though he laughs a little. "I guess? It's just . . ."

He sets the mug down and his hands are busy all of a sudden. He reaches out with a finger and flicks the salt shaker toward him. He bats it back and forth between his palms and she waits him out.

She tries to, anyway. Her mouth opens to say something. She doesn't know what. Anything, because it's too hard not to anymore. The silence is too hard and she opens her mouth.

He gets there first, though. "He did this."

The words come out low and dangerous and there's a flare of something unfamiliar in his eyes. She doesn't follow at first. She reaches across the table for his hand because she's not following and she wants to. She doesn't want him to disappear into this alone again.

"It's his fault. It was his fault in the first place." He grabs her wrist before her fingers reach his. It's sudden. Urgent and bruising, but she just closes her other hand over his and holds on.

"It _is _his fault," she says fiercely, but he's not listening. His jaw is working and she sees him turning in on himself. She sees him going and she follows. Digs her nails into the back of his hand because he's not listening. "It's his fault and the bastards who took her and it's not yours."

He doesn't say anything. He's pale and devastated and he doesn't say anything at all. His fingers are like a vise around her wrist and she feels like the only thing she's given him are scars. Four half moons on the back of his hand and that's just recently. She feels like they're both collapsing under the weight of it all and wonders how she could have ever thought they were ok.

"He had this . . . . wall." He's talking to the table. The words are hard and come one at a time, dropping like stones on to the scarred formica. He's still not looking her. He's still holding on for dear life and so is she. She lets him talk because she doesn't know what else to do. And at least he's talking. Even if he's talking to the table. Even if he's not talking to her. At least he's talking. "Pictures of her everywhere. Like a fucking serial killer and that's how they knew. She's his granddaughter. That's why they took her, because he's _proud_ of me."

It comes with a sneer. A hiss. That single word: _Proud. _She knows the taste of it. The contradiction. Bitter and golden and sweet and terrible all colliding inside. She knows it, but she doesn't know how to tell him about it. She's not sure that she should. This is about him, whether she knows the taste of it or not.

"It's his fault," she says quietly even though she doesn't know if he's listening. "But he saved her, too. He saved you."

"I don't care. I don't fucking care," he says through his teeth. "I don't care if he saved her. Am I supposed to be grateful?"

"You don't have to be." She flexes her fingers. Forces them to relax and strokes them along the back of his hand. He blinks down at them, startled to find his own knuckles white around her wrist. He lets go. The opposite of a convulsion and she barely catches his palm before he snatches it away. She turns it over on the table and presses her own into it. "You don't have to be grateful, but it's ok if you are."

He pulls his hand away. He pulls away and it cuts. Sharp and sudden, but she doesn't react. She stays still and lets him see. She leaves her hand on the table, somewhere between the saltshaker and the empty plates, and lets him see that it's still there.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all and there's a sudden torrent of words. A harsh, unfamiliar tone, and it's not really about her. He's angry and no one's safe from it right now, but it's not really about her.

It's harder that way. Right now it's harder than if he _were _angry with her. But it's about empty places and things he thinks he should have learned to live without by now. Things he doesn't want to want.

She lets it all wash over her. She waits. And there it is.

"Do you even know what it's like? To hate someone you should be able to trust and still want . . . to still want . . . something from them. To care whether they're proud of you?"

He stops. They both stop. They're not even breathing and the wave breaks over them and it's all there. Montgomery, mostly. _Roy. _But Royce, too. Her mother, even. Secrets and choices that she has to live with now. They both have to live with.

And them. The two of them and the things they've put each other through. Things that were no match for the longing and everything they'll always be to one another.

"I know, Castle." Her hand is still there. He blinks down at it and his eyes are bright with tears, but hard, too.

"I know," she says again and his fingertips inch out and curl over hers. They curl over hers and she's weak with relief.

"I'm tired," he says suddenly. "I'm tired, Kate."

"Me too." She smiles at him. "And cold. That's why I had to come looking for you."

"Your toes. You came looking for me." He brightens at the thought. _Really_ brightens and she wants to shake her head.

He's not ok. Not entirely, but it's amazing how close he can get. Just a little thing and he's so much closer to ok. It's seductive. That he's so . . . resilient. She's not like that and he is and it's so easy to take it at face value.

But she can't. He's not ok. _They're_ not ok, even if they're closer.

"I came looking for you, Castle," she says finally.

He's grinning now. It's smug and part of her wants to twist his ear. But most of her wants to take him home.

She slides out of the booth and holds out her hand to him. He takes it and tugs. Pulls himself up and into her and she meets him. Slides her hand up his chest and over his shoulder and makes him look at her.

"I came looking for you," she says again. "Better get used to it."


End file.
